Dead Ball

by Tom Palmer

  Outside Holt’s office, Danny read some more newspapers. Holt had insisted he read not just other sports pages, but the news too. He said Danny needed to know about more than football. He needed to know what was happening in the countries where football was going on.

  Were there wars? Was there poverty? Was there a lot of corruption?

  To understand football, Holt had said, you needed to understand the world.

  Danny sat down to read The Times.

  Railway workers on strike.

  More trouble in the Middle East.

  Boys not reading as much as girls.

  Then a story about Russia.

  RUSSIAN FOOTBALL FANATIC TUPOLEV IN GAS COUP

  The Russian billionaire and football impresario Dmitri Tupolev has been in talks with governments in Hungary, Bulgaria and Serbia, to finalize the route for his gas pipeline, running from Russia to Western Europe. Reports suggest he will seal a contract with all three countries to deliver gas to the West for the next fifty years.

  Tupolev, who owns 51% of Gasprospekt, also owns 100% of the top football clubs in Ukraine and Russia. It is very much anticipated that he will move soon for a club in Spain, Italy or England.

  Another English club owned by someone from abroad, Danny thought. This worried him. Whenever outside investors came in and bought a football club, the fans always lost out. They were charged more. Some could no longer afford to get in the stadium their family had gone to for generations.

  Danny looked up to see Anton waving at him through the glass wall of his office, holding his phone out to Danny.

  ‘It’s your dad,’ Holt mouthed, grinning.

  Danny went back into Holt’s office, breathed in and took the phone.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ve talked to your mum,’ his dad said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘About Russia.’

  ‘Right?’ said Danny, getting impatient.

  ‘Do you want to know what she said?’ Dad said.

  Danny said nothing. He waited. His dad was doing this on purpose: winding him up.

  ‘Are you still there, Danny?’

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ Danny said. ‘You’re doing my head in.’

  ‘Danny.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You can go to Moscow.’

  Danny punched the air.

  THE GAMBLE

  The telephone rang dead on midday. Just as Kenneth Francis had expected. He had no doubts about who was calling. Again. This time he let it ring for a few moments: he didn’t want the person at the other end to think he was at his beck and call.

  After four rings he answered.

  ‘Dmitri? How are you?’

  ‘Good. And are you having news for me?’

  Kenneth Francis smiled. There was no messing about with Dmitri Tupolev. He wanted answers.

  Francis paused again, glancing round the study in his yacht. Dark oak bookshelves holding twenty metres of the world’s greatest books. He knew the exact measurements because he had ordered the books by the metre. Not by the book. He was, in fact, proud to say that he’d not read one of them. They were all in mint condition.

  ‘I do have news,’ Francis said eventually.

  ‘Then Alex Finn is dead? This is –’

  ‘Not dead,’ Francis interrupted. He knew he had to handle this well. The future of his relationship with this Russian – and therefore his own future – depended on it.

  ‘Not dead?’ Tupolev said in a cold tone.

  ‘Alex Finn suffered a car accident yesterday, Dmitri. He will be out of football for a long time. And, of course, he is very scared.’

  ‘Not dead?’ Tupolev repeated, as if he wanted to hear a different reply from what he had just been told.

  This was the moment Kenneth Francis had to strike. The most important speech of his life.

  ‘No, not dead,’ he said firmly. ‘If he were dead, the English police would launch an investigation into a serious murder, rather than merely logging another car accident. If he were dead, the game on Wednesday would be called off, ruining our plans. If he were dead, the English police would get to the bottom of it, I promise you.’

  Francis paused in case Tupolev wanted to interject. But the Russian was silent. This, Francis knew, could be a good sign. Or a bad one. And he knew he had to gamble.

  ‘Frankly, Dmitri, the police in England are much more thorough than they are in your country. Mainly because they are not told what to do by the likes of me – or you. And here, also, we do not need to kill people to –’ Francis tried to find the right words – ‘influence their behaviour.’

  Francis stopped speaking. He had said his piece. He wanted to hear what Tupolev had to say now, to see if the gamble had paid off.

  There was a short silence.

  Then an explosion of laughter.

  Over two thousand kilometres away from the laughter, Francis smiled. He knew he had said the right thing. He had been direct with the Russian. Rude about his country. But it had worked. Dmitri Tupolev truly was into plain speaking.

  Then the Russian spoke. ‘So, what will you do to speak to the other goalkeepers? McGee? Skatie? For me… is clear… I mean important… that Russia beats England on Wednesday. It will happen.’

  Francis smiled again.

  ‘It is McGee we need to think about, Dmitri.’

  ‘Not Robert Skatie?’

  ‘No, McGee will play.’

  ‘And what do you –’

  ‘Matt McGee is an interesting man, Dmitri,’ Francis said. ‘I have had a man looking into him for me. A private investigator.’

  ‘And what did he find?’ Tupolev said.

  ‘That Matt McGee is a man with a past. And a present.’ Francis paused for effect.

  But Tupolev said nothing.

  So Francis went on. ‘In the past he was involved with some unsavoury characters.’

  ‘Unsavoury?’ Tupolev said. ‘What does this mean? That he was sweet? How can he be sweet?’

  Francis held back a laugh. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Unsavoury means bad, criminal.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘There are links to counterfeit money. And to drugs. And other crimes.’

  ‘You are proposing blackmail?’

  ‘Yes,’ Francis said. ‘But there’s more. I have made it my business to find out that Matt McGee is in severe debt. He gambles.’

  ‘Gambles?’

  ‘Bets. He bets money on anything that moves.’

  ‘And you are recommending?’

  Francis stopped to think. He often wondered how good Tupolev’s English was. Sometimes he used words like ‘recommending’ and ‘blackmail’, but would then struggle with words like ‘gamble’. A word he should know better than any other.

  Francis knew he had to be careful. He should not forget that this man was one of the most dangerous in the world.

  ‘A two-pronged attack,’ Francis said. ‘One: we threaten to expose his past. Two: we say we will pay all his gambling debts.’

  ‘To pay?’ Tupolev spat. ‘Let us just kill him. Pay him? This is one thing we do not do in Russia.’

  Francis spoke calmly. ‘We will not pay him, Dmitri. You misunderstand. We will say that we will pay him.’

  Again, after a pause, Francis heard Tupolev’s raucous laughter. It was a good sign. A very good sign. They could move forward. Francis had failed to finish off Alex Finn. But everything was still on track.

  SPIES EVERYWHERE

  Anton Holt gave Danny the afternoon off.

  ‘Find your passport,’ he said. ‘Text me its number. Someone here will sort your visa. Then get some roubles and some thermal underwear. OK?’

  Danny went home. His dad found his passport and Danny texted the number through to Holt. Then Danny asked his dad if he wanted to come to the Post Office to get some roubles. As for the thermal underwear, Danny didn’t bother. There was no way he was wearing anything ridiculous like that.
He’d rather freeze.

  ‘Now?’ Dad said.

  ‘Yeah. If they don’t have any in I’ll need to order them. For tomorrow morning, Anton said.’

  They walked down to the shops together. Danny’s dad next to him, just on his shoulder. Along streets of terraced houses, through leafier roads, past a church. Danny was still amazed at his dad. How could he walk without a stick, without holding Danny’s arm, just following his voice or his footsteps?

  ‘So what do you know about Russia?’ Dad said, interrupting Danny’s thoughts.

  Danny was about to reply, but his dad cut in.

  ‘I can’t believe you – how jammy can you get? First you get invited to the European Championships. And now you’re off to a World Cup qualifier.’

  ‘I’m just lucky,’ Danny said, stopping to cross the road at the lights.

  ‘Hmmmm,’ Dad said, stopping too. ‘Maybe you are. But just make sure you stay out of trouble on this trip. You know what I mean?’

  Danny felt like his dad was glaring at him through his dark glasses, but he knew he couldn’t be.

  ‘All I know,’ Danny said, ‘to answer your previous question, is that Russia isn’t as bad as it used to be. We did it in history last year, remember? The Cold War and all that.’

  ‘The Cold War and all that?’ Dad mimicked Danny. ‘Do you know, before my accident, all I used to read were thrillers about the Cold War and all that? I was obsessed. Everyone was. They were spying on us. We were spying on them. They were the communists: we were the free world. They had enough bombs aimed at us to sink the whole island. And everyone was always saying “The Russians are coming!”’

  ‘Coming where?’

  Danny asked the questions as they crossed the road, towards the row of shops on the high street.

  ‘To invade us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why us?’

  ‘Because they had all these tanks and bombs and they wanted to come get us. Make us communist too.’

  ‘And did they?’ Danny asked. ‘I mean, did they really want to do that?’

  ‘No. I don’t suppose so. It was a funny time. Anyone going to Russia was immediately watched and suspected by both sides. The British and the Russians.’ Dad stopped walking. ‘You’ve seen Spooks on TV, right?’

  ‘Yeah. The MI5 thing?’

  ‘And you know how it’s all about al-Qaida – the enemy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, there was no al-Qaida then. Not in the seventies and eighties. It was the Russians. The papers were full of it. And the books.’

  ‘Right,’ Danny said.

  ‘Are we in front of the café?’ Dad asked.

  His dad was spot on. That’s exactly where they were.

  ‘Yeah,’ Danny said.

  ‘You go and get your roubles,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll get the teas in.’

  ‘Can I have a Coke?’ Danny asked.

  Dad waved his hand and pushed the door of the café open. Danny walked another fifty yards and went into the Post Office.

  The Post Office was a large square room with three counters at the far end. There were two racks of shelves in the middle of the room, with kids’ toys, stationery and gift cards on display. Two of the counters were busy. The third was free. The man behind it already had his eyes on Danny. He was bald, sixty-plus and was wearing glasses.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he said.

  Danny had been served by this man dozens of times. Getting stamps for his mum. Posting parcels for his dad. But he still called Danny ‘sir’.

  ‘Can I have some roubles, please?’ Danny asked.

  ‘Roubles?’ The man raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, Russian –’

  ‘I know where roubles are from, sir,’ the man said, utterly deadpan.

  Danny nodded.

  ‘I’ll have to phone the order through,’ the man said.

  ‘When will they come?’ Danny said. ‘I need them for –’

  ‘Tomorrow, sir?’

  ‘Great.’ Danny smiled.

  The man eyed Danny, then turned his back. He dialled a number. Waited. Then he turned to face Danny through the glass screen. ‘Business or pleasure?’

  Danny didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Business or pleasure?’ the man repeated in the same tone.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Danny said.

  ‘I see. Let’s say pleasure, shall we? Do you have anything to do when you’re there? They’ll want to know.’

  ‘OK,’ Danny said. He felt nervous. Who were they? The people on the other end of the phone. Why did they want to ask all these questions?

  ‘Pleasure,’ Danny said eventually.

  ‘How much?’ the man asked.

  ‘How much what?’

  ‘Money.’

  ‘A hundred pounds, please.’

  The man raised his eyebrow again.

  ‘That won’t get you very far,’ the man said. ‘Are you going on your own?’

  Danny felt like telling the man everything, but decided not to. He’d give short answers now.

  ‘No.’

  The man nodded. ‘I see,’ he said.

  Danny tried to hear what the man said on the phone. But he couldn’t catch a word. The man was behind the glass screen, a few metres away, his back turned. Thoughts flashed through Danny’s mind. Why all the questions? Did it matter if he was there for business or pleasure? Did the man really need to phone someone?

  His mind drifted to what his dad had said.

  Anyone going to Russia was immediately watched and suspected by both sides. The British and the Russians.

  Danny wondered if the Post Office man was phoning someone other than the money people. Maybe he already had a load of roubles and was phoning to alert the authorities that there was a boy going to Russia and that he only wanted a hundred pounds. Someone needed to keep an eye on him. Someone needed to check him out. Someone needed to spy on him.

  ‘Tomorrow morning?’

  ‘What?’ Danny was surprised. The man was facing him, the phone down.

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Your roubles.’

  ‘That’s great. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome, sir.’

  Once Danny had paid, he left the Post Office quickly. He noticed that the man behind the counter was eyeing him over his glasses – all the way out until he was on the pavement. Then he thought he saw the man smile.

  Dad was sitting in the corner on his own. A cup of tea and a can of Coke in front of him. The café was full of noise. Conversations between people and a radio on in the background.

  Danny sat opposite him.

  ‘Did you get them?’ Dad said.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Danny replied.

  ‘No trouble?’

  ‘No, but…’ Danny paused. ‘I felt like the guy at the Post Office was monitoring me or something.’

  ‘Who? Frank?’

  ‘The bald guy with the glasses. He’s…’ Danny stopped. Even he made the mistake of describing what people looked like to his dad.

  ‘That’s Frank,’ Dad said.

  ‘About sixty?’

  ‘Sixty-four,’ Dad said. ‘I knew him well before the accident. I know what he looks like. We were mates. Sort of. He would have been having some fun with you.’

  ‘Right,’ Danny said.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘It’s not what he said. He was just funny,’ Danny said. ‘He was making me feel like I was doing something suspicious.’

  ‘He was winding you up,’ Dad said, laughing.

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘He knows all about Russia, does Frank.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Somehow Danny wasn’t surprised.

  ‘Frank was a member of the Communist Party when he was younger,’ Dad told him.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘He was a communist. He wanted to overthrow the rich and share the money out. To put it simply.’

  Danny stared at his dad. ‘You’re kidding.’
He drank his Coke quickly. It was cold and felt good.

  ‘Danny?’ Dad said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Is it going well with Anton? At the paper, I mean. Do you like the job?’

  ‘It’s great. I love it,’ Danny said. He could feel an important question coming on. His dad did this: asked him an easy question to move towards something more serious he wanted to know.

  ‘So do you reckon you’d prefer it,’ Dad said, ‘to being a detective?’

  Danny was shocked his dad could think that. ‘No way,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ Dad replied, muted.

  ‘I mean,’ Danny said. ‘There’s things that are the same. You have to find stuff out. You have to put it all together. So I suppose it’s not all that different. But I’m still going to be a detective.’

  Dad nodded. ‘Will you do me a favour in Moscow, then?’

  Danny frowned. ‘Sure,’ he said. He was right: something was coming. And this wasn’t going to be a request for him to bring back a Russian doll.

  ‘Don’t be a detective out there. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Danny said.

  ‘It’s different in Russia,’ Dad went on. ‘Even now. I mean, we’re not sworn enemies any more. But it’s a very different world. Frankly, some of the police are corrupt. There are a lot of criminal gangs. Mafia.’

  Dad stopped talking: Danny had gone quiet.

  ‘I’m not trying to scare you, Danny. If you’re there as a tourist – as a football fan, as a boy – you’ll be fine. Just be careful. This is a great opportunity for you. An amazing thing to happen. So long as you stay close to Anton and do what normal boys do, you’ll be fine. OK?’

  Danny nodded.

  Deep down, though, he was beginning to feel nervous. Or was he excited? He wasn’t sure which.

  SATURDAY

  HOUSE PARTY

  ‘So tell us again,’ Charlotte said.

  Danny had been daydreaming. About the man at the Post Office. When Danny had gone in there that morning to collect his roubles, his dad’s friend had passed him the money and whispered, ‘Don’t forget to dust a bit of chalk on to your suitcase – to make sure it’s not been tampered with.’ Danny knew it was a joke. But it had set his mind racing. Was it going to be like that in Russia? He felt like he was about to step into the pages of a spy novel.